


A Marriage of Inconvenience

by Celia_and



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Birth Control, Cooking, Courthouse wedding, Cunnilingus, Drinking, Eating, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fluff, Green Card Marriage, Happy Ending, Immigration, Immigration & Emigration, Immigration officer Ben Solo, Marriage of Convenience, One Night Stands, Pining, Sexual Tension, Smut, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Vaginal Sex, reference to human trafficking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28655202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and
Summary: “This country is absolute trash, and I still want to stay here. Doesn’t that count for anything?”He looks at her curiously, like there’s a field on a form in her file that he doesn’t have the answer to. “Why do you want to stay?” He asks it simply, quietly.She regrets later giving him so much truth, when Finn is driving her home and the car window is smudged with tears. But she looks at him and she says it, and she can’t take it back.“This is the only place where anyone’s loved me.”----------Rey and Finn’s application for a green card marriage is airtight—if only her one-night stand the night before hadn’t been with her immigration officer.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 347
Kudos: 1104
Collections: Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyReylo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyReylo/gifts).



> Inspired by [@LadyReylo](https://twitter.com/LadyReyIo)’s extraordinary [prompt](https://twitter.com/LadyReyIo/status/1347128202213404674):
> 
> _With her visa denied, best friend Finn agrees to help Rey out with a green card marriage. The night before their interview, Rey has her first & last one night stand, only to find out the next day, Ben Solo wasn’t just the best sex of her life, he’s also her immigration officer._

“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Rey?”

One of the legs of her chair is shorter than the other. It wobbles. The waiting room carpet has an inadvertently literal path to citizenship—a line worn down it from decades of people walking to the back office to do the exact thing they’re about to do. Well, not _exactly_ the same.

She turns to Finn. “Are _you_ sure you want to?”

He smiles tightly. “I asked you first.”

“Yeah.” She grabs his hand and squeezes it for reassurance. “It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

* * *

_He’d emerged panting from between her thighs, with wild hair and a soaked chin. “How was that?”_

_She scoffed incredulously, trying to catch her breath, then giggled mischievously. “It was fine, I suppose.”_

_“Just fine!?” He grabbed her hips and yanked her down the bed, and she yelped and squealed. “I’ll show you fine.”_

_It wasn’t his mouth she gloried in so much as the way his shoulders cradled her thighs. She liked that part: the being cradled. She liked too how he would’ve gone down on her all night if she wanted and not asked for anything more._

_But she wanted more._

* * *

“You won’t be able to date anyone,” Finn murmurs in a voice low enough that even if they’d chosen seats ten feet closer to the receptionist’s window, she still wouldn’t have been able to hear them. “You won’t be able to change your mind, once we do this. You could get in legal trouble if they find out.”

“I know all this,” she hisses back.

“I know you know,” he responds placidly. “I’m just reminding you, to make sure.”

 _“I_ should be reminding _you,”_ she retorts. “You won’t be able to date anyone either. You’ll have to give up half your closet.”

“Hey, I never promised _half,”_ he grins. “Maybe two fifths.”

“If they do a home visit, they’re never going to buy that we’re sharing a closet and I have less space.”

“What, because you’re a woman?”

“No,” she grins, “because of the force of my personality. You clearly would’ve given me more.”

“Yeah, well, I seem to be quite able to withstand the force of your personality. Forty percent. Take it or leave it.”

“If we were actually together, I could bribe you with sex.”

“Or _I_ could bribe you.”

* * *

_“That’s something I hate.” It was sometime after four, and sleep tugged at her insistently, but she fought to stay afloat on the sound of his voice. Because once she fell asleep it would be over. Him. Them. Her last and only._

_“Hmm?” she asked, playing with his hair. His cheek was resting on her sternum, close enough to her breast that he could’ve turned his head and sucked her nipple._

_“The idea that women dole out sex as a reward. That you don’t enjoy it as much as we do.”_

_She smiled up at the ceiling. “Well, we’re probably better on average at faking it when it’s just so-so.”_

_“But you didn’t. Fake it.” She threaded her fingers through his hair and didn’t answer. He raised his head and propped himself up on elbows on either side of her so he could look down at her. “Right, Rey?”_

_She hid her smile with the back of her fingers. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”_

_“I do know,” he insisted. “No one can fake it that well. That many times.”_

_She laughed at the worried crease between his eyebrows and wrapped her arms and legs around him. “I didn’t fake it, Ben.” She kissed him softly. “Not once.”_

* * *

“Okay, so how did we meet?”

She groans. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. And besides, you don’t need to quiz me on the parts that actually happened.”

“Fine. Where was our first date?”

“There could be a microphone hidden in that potted plant, did you ever think of that?”

Finn glances over at the plastic peace lily innocently gathering dust next to a mile of magazines on the low table beside them. “There isn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“They can’t even afford a subscription to People magazine, how do you think they have the budget for microphones?”

“What, InStyle isn’t good enough for you?”

“Not...” he checks the date on the tattered cover, “from September 2012, it’s not.”

“They’re never going to believe that you’re straight, with your intimate knowledge of InStyle.”

He gasps in exaggerated, pretend affront and clutches imaginary pearls. “Why, how _dare_ you suggest something so outlandish!”

She muffles her laugh behind a hand. “Don’t make me laugh,” she scolds him.

“Do you think they deduct believability points every time we laugh?”

She clutches her wrist and twists. “You never know.”

* * *

_She’d been kneeling astride him, riding him slowly with both hands planted on his abs, when she started laughing and couldn’t stop._

_“What?” he asked, dazed. “What’s so funny?”_

_She shook her head and covered her mouth with her hand in a failed effort to stop the laughter from escaping. “I don’t know.” A new bout of laughter exploded as a snort._

_He sat partway up, propping himself on his arms behind him and grinning at her. She still had him inside her, and she couldn’t keep from clenching even as her laughter pealed._

_He joined in. She laughed loud and long, and so did he, and when their laughter quieted to smiles he sat up all the way and took her in his arms and kissed her like it was the last thing we was going to do on earth. Not passionate, not hard, not desperate. Soft and slow and cherishing. But it wasn’t the last thing, because when he pulled back she was still smiling, and so was he, and when she pushed him back onto the bed and ground her hips in circles and milked him back to hardness with her cunt, they were still smiling._

_They didn’t stop. Not for a long time._

* * *

“Should we hold hands, do you think? When we get back there?”

He must be able to tell how worried her eyes are, because he takes her hand in his warm, dry, solid one. “Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. It might make it look like we’re trying too hard.”

“Okay, then let’s not.”

“Or it might make it look like we’re not physically comfortable with each other.”

“Okay, then let’s do it.”

“Or it might—”

“Rey,” Finn interrupts firmly. “You’re overthinking again. They’re going to buy it for sure.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Because we actually _do_ love each other.”

“But as _friends.”_

He shrugs. “I mean, at the end of the day, love is love, right? I don’t expect some bureaucrat to be able to tell the difference.”

* * *

_“Have you ever been in love?” She regretted the question as soon as it slipped out of her mouth. “Sorry. Don’t answer that. Forget it.”_

_His chest was warm and wide against her bare back. After they fucked the first time, there had been a silent question of so, is this over? that he answered without words by sitting up and pulling her against him, wrapping her up in a silent claim._

_He silently stroked her ring finger with his thumb for so long that she wondered whether he was annoyed that she’d asked. “No,” he said finally. “I’ve never been in love.”_

_“Do you want to be?” she asked quietly._

_“I don’t know,” he answered thoughtfully. “Sometimes I think I would, as an intellectual exercise, to see what it feels like.”_

_She smiled. “I don’t think love is supposed to be an intellectual exercise.”_

_“But you don’t know? Firsthand?” His lips brushed her ear._

_She didn’t know why it felt so much more personal when he asked than when she did._

_“No. Not firsthand.”_

_That’s when she commandeered his hands and guided them to her breasts, and she squirmed and touched herself and felt him harden behind her, and he grabbed a condom and picked her up and sat her down on his cock, and they forgot for a while that they had never been in love._

* * *

“Finn. About last night...” she trails off.

“What’s wrong? I thought you said it was good?”

“No, it was.”

“Because that guy was making eyes at you across the bar for like an hour, and I’m an excellent judge of how good a guy is in bed based on his eyes-across-the-bar game.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It definitely is. He had that intent, soulful pining thing going on that means he’s either a generous lover or he cums in twenty seconds but at least he reads you poetry or something.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have done it, though? What if someone finds out?”

“Babe.” He sighs. “How would that go, exactly? A well-meaning whistleblower somehow finds out that we’re getting green-card married and reports that they saw you leave a bar with another guy?”

“It’s not impossible.”

“It is. And even if it were, they would _also_ be able to report that I was sitting right next to you. You left with him with my blessing, clearly. We obviously have a very loving, supportive open relationship.”

“I don’t think the U.S. government believes in open relationships.”

“They believe in evidence, though. And I paid the bar tab. So I was clearly there.”

That fact, as inconsequential as it is, does lift a little of the burden of worry from her chest, and Finn can tell.

“I’m positive. We’ve dotted all our t’s.”

“That’s not—”

“Babe.” He takes her hand. “Believe me.”

* * *

_“I don’t know if it will fit,” she said apprehensively.  
_

_“It will. Believe me.”_

_“You can’t possibly know that.”_

_“Is this an ego-boosting thing? Because I’ve got to say, it’s working.” He stroked his condom-ed cock, kneeling between her thighs._

_“No, I swear, I’ve never been with anyone this big, and I’ve never used a toy that big, and I don’t know if I’ll stretch enough or if it will be too much.”_

_“Can I go down on you again?”_

_“Isn’t your jaw sore by now?”_

_He waved away her objection airily. “That’s not important.”_

_She bit her lip to hide her smile. “What is important, then?”_

_“That you cum.”_

_“I already have.”_

_“A lot. As much as you want.”_

_“Okay.” She scooted down the sheets toward him and spread her legs wider. “Then make me.”_

_He started to bend down, to crawl back so his mouth could take its rightful place again, but she grabbed hold of his hair to stop him. He looked up quizzically._

_“With your cock.”_

_His next breath was more of a shudder. “But what if it’s too big?”_

_“It’s not.” She tugged him up toward her, on top of her, with his thick, meaty cock resting in the cradle her labia made for it._

_“How do you know?”_

_“I just do.” She reached down between them to grasp him._

_“I don’t want to hurt you.”_

_“Then don’t.” They both held their breath as she guided the hot, red tip of him to her cum-wet entrance._

_She shifted her hips up and spread her legs as wide as they could go and silently prayed that it was enough, that her body would be able to take him, that when he started to push her cunt would let him in, and it didn’t work at first, his cock slid away to her clit instead, but he guided it back to her yearning opening and she would’ve kissed him, she would’ve stroked his arm or held his hand or rubbed his shoulder except that this particular task needed all his concentration: to wiggle his hips in circles to coax her open for him, and to push and adjust and push and push until she thought it was too much, that it wasn’t going to fit, and she was about to tell him so when the head popped through._

_He didn’t get the rest all the way in for another few minutes, and at some point she forgot what words were but he kissed her and stroked her arm and held her hand and rubbed her shoulder and told her how good she was and how tight and how perfect, and how she didn’t need to worry, he was made for her and so of course his cock would fit, and by the time he started the slow journey out she’d already cum once, and his first thrust technically lasted about five minutes, all told: in and out._

_And then came the second one._

* * *

“Why’s it taking so long, anyway?” Rey’s foot bobs relentlessly.

Finn checks the clock on the wall. “Because you insisted we get here half an hour early.”

“Do you think we get points for being early?”

“Wait, you don’t actually think this is based on a points system, do you?”

“Who knows,” she groans. “We’re not immigration experts.”

“We don’t need to be,” Finn insists. “We just need to be in love.”

“What if I forget what brand of toothpaste you use?”

“Oh shit, _I_ forget what brand of toothpaste I use.”

Rey rolls her eyes. “Finn.”

“If you forget what brand of toothpaste I use, the officer will think you’re a human being with a fallible memory. And they won’t ask what brand of toothpaste I use.”

“They might.”

“Will they give us both whiteboards to write down the answer and then compare?”

“That would be fun. We should do that.”

“We’ll have plenty of time, seeing as how we’re getting married and everything. Date night!” Finn enthuses.

The clock ticks them closer to their appointment. Rey breathes.

“It’ll be fine, Rey.”

She manages a real smile. “I know.”

* * *

_“I know we only said one night.” The first light of dawn was creeping in the cracks by the curtains. She was dozing on his chest. He stroked her hand and kissed it. “But that was before this.”_

_“Mmm,” she hummed groggily. “B’fore what?”_

_“This,” he said. “Us.”_

_Sleeps dragged at her eyes. “Don’ know what you’re talking about.”_

_“Rey,” he insisted quietly. “Was this really the same as any other one-night stand for you?”_

_She shook her head against his chest. “Don’ have one-night stands. Jus’ you.” She could’ve sworn his heartbeat quickened._

_“Then come back. Make it a two-night stand. Let me take you out for real. On a date. Or let me make you dinner.”_

_“Can make me breakfas’,” Rey allowed magnanimously._

_“I’ll do that too. Say I can see you again.”_

_She shook her head again. “Can’t. Can’t.”_

_“Why not, sweetheart?” His both arms wrapped around her back, as if she couldn’t leave if he held her close enough._

_“Don’ call me that. ‘m not.” She wiggled free from his grasp and sat naked on the bed beside him, with sheets pooled around her waist. “I need to go.” She rubbed her eyes with the heels of both palms._

_“Give me your number.” He sat up too, and she hadn’t fully realized or perhaps just hadn’t appreciated how broad he was._

_“I can’t.” She groped around in the semi-darkness for her dress and underwear. She recalled that her shoes hadn’t made it past the entryway._

_“Why not? Are you moving? Are you married? What, Rey?”_

_She faced away from him as she zipped the dress up. “You can think whatever you need to.”_

_“I think you’re the first person who’s ever made me get it. How people fall in love.”_

_“I think we had great sex and we should leave it at that.” She did a mental jewelry inventory and found her necklace on the bedside table._

_“Rey.” Ben caught her wrist in an earnest hand. “Why are you doing this?”_

_She didn’t look at him, even as she placed a kiss on his thumb and carefully unwrapped it from her wrist. “Goodbye, Ben.”_

_She was annoyed in the hallway to find a tear on her cheek. That wasn’t part of the plan._

* * *

“Ms. Johnson?”

She springs to her feet and gathers up her coat and bag like promptness will earn them points. Finn’s hand ends up in hers naturally, and he’s the first one to gasp as he sees their case officer.

Rey looks to Finn, concerned, but when she sees where his eyes are pointed she looks too, and what she sees is a nightmare.

He looks different under fluorescents. Paler. Neat. With a manila envelope tucked under his arm and hair that’s not sticking up where she tugged it as his tongue fucked her. He looks different in the daytime, Ben does.

Finn kisses her cheek and whispers urgently under the pretext of brushing her hair back from her face, _We can still make it work. Open relationship._

She gulps without looking away from the man who waits frozen, holding open the door that they’re going to walk through. And then sit down in his office. And pretend that— what exactly?

Her mind is speeding but doesn’t seem to go anywhere, because as they enter Ben’s office and hear the menacing click of the door as he shuts it firmly behind them, she’s no closer to rational thought than she was when she saw his face. Again.

She sits down on one of the chairs facing the desk, because she’s not sure if her knees will continue to hold her, and Finn follows her lead. He never lets go of her hand.

Ben circles around behind the desk, sits, and folds his hands. “So.”

“What are the odds, right?” Finn chuckles nervously.

No levity appears on Ben’s face. It’s granite. “What are the odds that a green-card seeker planning to defraud the United States government with a sham marriage would sleep with the very case officer who was assigned to her the next day? I agree, very slim.”

Finn forces a laugh, and Rey loves him but not blindly, and she knows how bad an actor he is. “Oh, no, see, Rey and I have an open relationship. Sexually. But that doesn’t mean we’re not very... _very_ much in love.” He squeezes her hand.

“Hmm,” Ben hums, leaning forward. “It’s interesting you say that.”

“What? Interesting?” Rey is pretty sure Finn is visibly sweating by now, though she hasn’t looked away from Ben. “Why— why interesting?”

Ben leans back in his chair. “There are twenty-three case officers on staff in this office. And most of us have our cases randomly audited. Someone goes through our files with a fine-toothed comb. Repeats home visits. Re-administers interviews. To make sure we’re making the right call. That we’re not letting fraudulent relationships slip through. Each officer usually gets three or four cases audited a year—more if there’s evidence that they need it. Everyone, that is, except one person. There are twenty-three case officers, and twenty-two get audits. Because I’m never wrong.” He shrugs slightly. “Applicants don’t usually make it _quite_ so easy for me, though, I have to say.”

“Please,” Rey begs, her mouth dry. “Just keep Finn out of this, he didn’t do anything, it was all me—”

“What!?” Finn yelps. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sweetheart, we’re _obviously_ in love, and—”

Rey looks over at him. “You don’t need to pretend. I told him. Things.”

Things that she can’t look at Ben and talk about.

_“I don’t think love is supposed to be an intellectual exercise.”_

_“But you don’t know? Firsthand?”_

Rey takes a lungful, turns back to look at Ben, and does the most dangerous thing she’s ever done in her life. “I’m asking you to make an exception for us.”

“No.” He doesn’t even hesitate.

“I’m asking you to make an exception for us,” she repeats steadily.

“Absolutely not.”

“I know you don’t know me, and I know you think you know things about me and Finn, but you don’t. We love each other. Why should we be punished just because it’s not romantic love?”

“I am not punishing you, Ms. Johnson,” he says drily.

“How d’you figure?”

“I am allowing you to withdraw your application. I will not proceed with recommending charges be filed. You will be returned to your country of origin. No one is being punished.”

“You are.” A rage kindles in her chest, bright and hot. “You’re punishing me because I wouldn’t give you my number. Because I wouldn’t sleep with you again.”

“That’s preposterous, Ms. Johnson,” he bites dismissively.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you would’ve treated this case exactly the same if I hadn’t been in your bed six hours ago.”

“I would’ve treated it the same.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ms. Johnson—”

“You’re lying. You’re _fucking_ lying.”

He recoils as if she’d slapped him. “Fine.” His voice is deathly quiet. “I did treat you differently. If you were anyone else I would’ve recommended charges.”

She’s shaking like she’s cold, but it’s not cold, what fills her veins. “You self-righteous, self-appointed Javert, sitting there and making decisions about people’s _lives—”_

“You know what, you’re right. I _do_ make decisions about people’s lives.” He leans forward. “And you know why? You know why I follow the letter of the law at every single step in every single case? Because I’ve seen a seventeen-year-old sit in the chair where you’re sitting and swear she was nineteen. And she gave good answers, convincing ones, and the man who’d trafficked her had prepped her well. And the reason that girl is safe and that man is in prison is because I _followed the law.”_

Rey shakes her head stubbornly. “No. That’s not me. You _know_ that’s not me. I just need to stay in this country. _Please.”_

He closes the file with an awful finality and rises to his feet. “There’s nothing I can do. Your visa is already expired. Your deportation will be scheduled for thirty days from now.”

She stands too. “This is an awful country. A fucking shitstain of a country. Do you ever watch the news, Ben, or do you just sit in your cushy government office all day and then go to bars and pick up women?” She’s vibrating with fury. “This country is absolute _fucking trash,_ and I _still_ want to stay here. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

He looks at her curiously, like there’s a field on a form in her file that he doesn’t have the answer to. “Why do you want to stay?” He asks it simply, quietly.

She regrets later giving him so much truth, when Finn is driving her home and the car window is smudged with tears. But she looks at him and she says it, and she can’t take it back.

“This is the only place where anyone’s loved me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to disclaim on the last chapter that I have no knowledge whatsoever of immigration proceedings and I apologize for what I’m sure are gross and pervasive inaccuracies. 😊
> 
> Moodboard by the lovely [LadyReylo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyReylo/pseuds/LadyReylo)!

She’s never particularly liked working at the coffee shop until now that she knows she’s going to have to leave. Even burning her hand on the steamer wand holds its own preemptive nostalgia, because this is one of the last times she’s going to burn her hand. She’s going to clock in fourteen more times. No, thirteen. No, twelve.

She spends those last weeks in a haze. She hasn’t made it past the denial stage of grief, so it’s Finn who decides what she’s going to pack and what she’s going to sell. Finn who finds a London hostel she can stay in until she gets a job and an apartment. Finn does the thinking, so she doesn’t have to. She can just mourn the days in disbelief.

There’s a week left. At this time in seven days she’ll be on a plane. She doesn’t think about it, because she can’t. She picks up a waiting cup and reads the order. Skim, no-whip hazelnut mocha. Her hands move without needing instruction from her brain by now. She plops it on the counter. “Ahmad!” Next is an iced green tea. “Leslie!” Then a dark roast, no space for milk. “Ben!”

“Hi.”

It’s him. Of _course_ it’s him. Of all the Bens in all the world.

“I’m working,” she frowns curtly. Her customer service couldn’t be worse, but her manager won’t fire her with a week left.

“I know.” At least he has the decency to look halfway contrite. “I can wait.”

She picks up the next waiting cup. “What makes you think I’d want to talk to you?”

“I think you will.”

She glares, but he’s already walked away from the counter, to take a seat at a two-top that barely manages to contain both him and his knees.

She works mechanically. She glances at the clock and counts down the minutes and thinks about how she didn’t tell him what time she gets off, and he didn’t ask. Either he found out her schedule somehow, which she wouldn’t remotely put past him, or he’s actually willing to wait as long as it takes.

He looks uncomfortable, though it might just be the hard chair. They’re not designed to encourage loitering. You’re supposed to do your capitalist duty and go—stop taking up space once you’ve stopped being a consumer. He doesn’t drink his coffee. He doesn’t look at her, either, or at least she doesn’t catch him at it when she glances over. Her hands make coffee and her mind tries not to hope. Because if there’s such a thing as miracles, then now is a good time for one. With a one-way plane ticket and a belly of fear.

She’s not entirely sure how she got in the habit of hope, or why. Nothing in her life has particularly justified the practice so far, besides Finn. And it might just be the denial talking—the absolute inability to picture herself walking onto a plane to go to a place that doesn’t know her, and staying there forever—but there’s something about this inexplicably awkward, overlarge, inexorable man and his cooling coffee that whispers of a chance. Even a tiny one.

She clocks out, grabs her coat, and makes a beeline to him.

“You didn’t drink it,” she accuses.

He startles and starts to stand up, but she plops down in the chair across the table from him, and he evidently takes that as sufficient invitation to sit. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.” His hair isn’t quite as pristine as it was that day in the office. It’s almost rumpled, almost how she first learned it, in sheets and bliss.

“I haven’t agreed to anything.” She crosses her arms in front of her. “Why didn’t you drink it?”

He glances down at the cup in quiet surprise, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “I don’t like coffee.”

“Why didn’t you order something you like?”

“I didn’t come for the drinks, Rey.”

She sets her chin. “What happened to _Ms. Johnson?”_

“Would you rather I call you that?”

“I’d rather you tell me why the hell you’re here so I can go home.”

He looks down at the cup and wraps his hand around it, not to drink, but to tuck his thumb under the corner of the cardboard sleeve. “I thought about what you said. A lot.”

“Oh yeah?” she retorts with biting sarcasm. “Which part? Because I said a lot of things, Ben. And if you had any decency you’d forget the ones that I told in bed to the stranger I thought I’d never see again.”

“Not just those,” he answers quickly. “What you said in the office. I know you’re not being trafficked. I can tell you love your friend.” His thumb works away at the glue that holds the cardboard together. “If I could make an exception for anyone, I would make one for you.”

 _Oh._ There’s a pain in her chest—an actual physical wrenching that tells her how much she’d let herself hope. More than she thought. “That’s what you came here to say,” she says dully. “To make yourself feel better. You’re the most selfish person I’ve ever met.” She says it plainly, matter-of-factly, without heat and without malice. Just a truth.

“No.” He looks up sharply. “That’s not why. You should be able to stay here, Rey. If you want to. The country is better because you’re here.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

He barrels on. “You can’t marry Finn. I already closed the case. There’s no possible way any case officer would agree to reopen it now. And you’ve already overstayed your visa; the U.S. won’t let you back in once you’re gone. Whatever we do, it has to be now.”

“Whatever it is you’re trying to say, can you _please_ say it, because I—”

“Marry me. If you want to. You could marry me.”

There’s a distant rushing in her ears that drowns out the noise around them. It’s like when she was seven and had an ear infection. That same thumping, pounding river. She grips the edge of the table with both hands and shakes her head. “What are you _doing_ here?”

His chin quivers, just once. “To ask if you want to marry me.”

Anger and disbelief fight for dominance. “Is this some sort of test? To tempt me into trying to defraud the government again so you can put me in prison this time?”

“What?” What right does _he_ have to look so hurt? “No, of course not. I never— never asked anyone to marry me before.”

“And you decided your first time should be _me?”_

“You need someone they’ll trust.” The cardboard sleeve gives way under a particularly vicious yank. “Ten years I’ve worked there, and they’ve stopped auditing me because I’ve never lied once. Not in a decade. So when I tell them I love you, they’ll believe it.” One shoulder rises in an apologetic shrug.

“Why would you do that?” She’s shivering now, and not from cold.

“It’s the only way you can stay in the country.” He looks puzzled.

She scoffs in disbelief. “I’m not asking about _me,_ I’m asking why _you_ would do that.”

“You shouldn’t have to leave.”

She stares him down. “Are you asking because I wouldn’t give you my number? So you can sleep with me again?”

His face contorts into a disgusted, horrified frown. “What? No. _No._ That’s— I wouldn’t do that. I would _never_ do that.”

A sharp, short bark of laughter escapes her lungs. Is this what hysteria feels like? Is she dreaming? “But you can see why I would think that, though, because when you fuck me four times in one night and grab my wrist when I’m leaving and then ask me to _marry_ you...”

He’s shaking his head resolutely. “Not for sex. I wouldn’t ask that. I swear. I’d never touch you.”

“Why should I trust you?” she beseeches. _Give me a reason, Ben. Please._

He understands. “I’ve only ever lived here. My whole life. I didn’t even move away for college. This is the only home I’ve ever had.” He takes a deep breath. “But no one’s loved me here. No one’s loved me anywhere. And if you have someone...” He swallows resolutely. “I just thought... I don’t know. One of us should have that.”

Tears gather in her eyes. She doesn’t even try to shake them away. He has to lean forward to hear what she says, because it comes out in a whisper. “Why do I believe you?”

His mouth smiles, but his eyes don’t. “I never lie, Rey.”

She nods slowly, staring at him.

“Okay?” he asks softly.

“Okay.”

* * *

Instead of packing her things in suitcases to go across an ocean, she packs them to go across town. And instead of crying into Finn’s hug at the airport, she does it at the courthouse in a white dress that Thursday morning. He takes her into the family restroom and helps her wash her face and redo her makeup so her eyes won’t be red for the pictures.

She’s shocked at how readily the case officer believes them, even though Ben told her they would. He sits in an office down the hall from his own and holds her hand and tells his coworker that they met in a bar and went home together and by midnight he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, and the woman nods and writes something on a form and barely even asks Rey anything, so she can just sit in the haze that she lives in all the time now. He never lets go of her hand until the meeting is over and they stand up, and then he puts his arm around her waist and walks her down the hall back to the waiting room and kisses her on the forehead for the benefit of anyone watching and says he’ll see her at home, and then he goes back to his office and she goes to his apartment and stares at the suitcases that hold her life and tries to convince herself to unpack them.

She doesn’t.

It starts to rain, and she cracks open the window and sits on the floor beneath it, her arms wrapped around her shins, and smells the rain and tries to do anything besides rub her thumb back and forth across the ring on her left hand. The one he bought the day before their wedding and handed to her in the bag that still had the receipt inside and waited as she opened it and scuffed his foot on the floor and asked if it was okay.

She didn’t understand the question. She stood in the kitchen that was supposed to be hers too and held the delicate silver band with her finger and thumb and looked up at him like she’d never seen another human being before, and he finally looked down and took the ring gently from her and took her hand and slid it onto her finger. It fit.

 _I don’t think I can do this,_ she’d almost told him, then. But instead she’d pasted on her customer-service smile and thanked him and told him she would meet him at the courthouse at ten and then she and Finn would move her things over afterward.

“I can help, if you want,” he’d said lowly.

She shook her head brightly. “No, Finn and I can do it.”

He looked down and away at the counter. “There’s something we haven’t— I mean— I only have one bedroom. I need to leave my things in there, for the home visits, but I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “You shouldn’t have to sleep on the couch in your own home. It’s not even long enough for you.”

“It’s not about should or shouldn’t. I’m going to. So that’s it.”

_Do you feel like you’ve been asleep ever since we saw each other in that bar and this is all one big elaborate dream and you’re waiting to wake up but it never seems to happen? Or is it just me?_

“Okay.” She slid off the ring, put it safely back in its box, and handed it back to him.

“Okay.”

The dream hasn’t ended. She gulps in the cold, rainy air and makes herself as small as she can, as if the suitcases won’t see her if she’s small enough.

She’s still there when she hears his key in the lock, and she startles and springs up as if he caught her doing something wrong. He’s slightly unsteady on his feet, and his tie is loosened—the one that she accidentally touched when she accidentally put her hand on his chest when he kissed her for the judge and the camera.

“Left my car at the bar,” he tells her, and slumps down onto the couch that’s his bed now.

“Okay,” she says meekly, and takes her suitcases into the bedroom so he doesn’t have to look at them and he doesn’t have to look at her, and she sits on the edge of the bed and doesn’t turn on the light when it gets dark, and she hears him making dinner but doesn’t go out to help, and he knocks softly on the door and when she opens it he’s gone, in the bathroom, and there’s a plate of mushroom risotto and roasted chicken and a fork and a knife and a napkin and a glass of water with two ice cubes on a tray on the floor.

_This was a mistake. I’m sorry. If I tell them it was my fault, I forced you into this, they’ll just deport me, right? Nothing bad will happen to you?_

She turns on the lamp and sits on the floor to eat, leaning against the foot of the bed. She stares at her suitcases until she can’t anymore, and then she opens them and puts her clothes in the three-fifths of the closet he left empty for her, and the two and a half cleared-out drawers in the dresser, and she leaves a careful strip of wood down the middle between his socks and hers, so they don’t touch.

She sleeps on the floor that night, curled up on the carpet underneath her coat. Because the bed only holds six hours’ worth of memories, but it’s six hours too much.

* * *

It’s sunny the next morning. She emerges for breakfast and murmurs _good morning_ but avoids looking at him as she pours herself a bowl of cereal while he strips the couch and folds the sheets, and he showers and by the time he emerges to retrieve his clothes from the bedroom, she’s already left for work.

He sits down heavily on the bed. It doesn’t look slept-in, unless she’s as meticulous about making beds as he is, which he wouldn’t have guessed.

He slips his hand under the pillow and finds his note still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and love mean an awful lot to me. I’m on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/CeliaAnd2) if you’d like to come visit!


	3. Chapter 3

That’s how it goes for a week. She leaves for work, then he does, then she comes home and stays in the bedroom to be out of his way, and he makes dinner and leaves a tray outside her room, and she eats it and stares at the wall and tries to fathom the exact extent to which she’s fucked up his life and wonders why she ever thought her staying in the country would be worth _this_.

Her texts to Finn are vague and cheery, because if she says out loud how horrible this mistake is that she’s made, that will make it real.

A week in, she can’t take it anymore. She calls Finn from the back alley on her morning break.

“Good morning, Ms. permanent resident-to-be!”

She had no inkling that she was going to burst into tears until she heard his voice.

“Rey? Babe, what’s wrong?”

She cries harder, clutching her phone to her ear and leaning against the brick wall of the alley.

“Did he do something to you? I swear to God, I’ll kill him.”

“No,” she sobs. “It’s not him.”

“Okay, babe. Everything’s going to be okay. You just cry, okay? Because that’s what you need, and you’ll feel better after, and you can go back to making the best coffee in the city and come over this evening and we can eat _all_ the pizza.”

“I can’t,” she hiccups wetly. “We don’t know when the unscheduled visit will be, and Ben said it’s generally in the first week or two after the wedding. I should be there.”

“Then I’ll come bring you lunch.”

She shakes her head. “Your break isn’t long enough.”

“What can I do for you, baby?”

“Don’t make me cry again.”

“What’s wrong?”

She takes a deep breath and wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I thought I could do this without feeling things, but when we stood up in the courthouse and he kissed me, it felt like... I don’t know. Like I was doing something _wrong._ Not the immigration thing. Like people shouldn’t lie about love like that. And now I’m taking up room in his apartment and he can’t even sleep in his own bed, and I think I did a really bad thing. I think I’m a bad person.”

“He’s the one who asked you,” Finn points out. “He knew better than any of us what he was getting into. Logistically, I mean. You’re not hurting him. And there’s no fucking way that you’re a bad person.”

“I know it’s stupid, but I feel like I moved to England after all. That’s how out of place I feel. Maybe it would’ve been better if I had.”

“Okay, I’m going to put a stop to this right now,” Finn interjects emphatically. “Have you talked to him at all about this? Told him how you’re feeling?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

“Why of course?”

“I don’t want to make him feel like he needs to do even more than he’s already done. He fucking _married_ me, and I have the gall to complain about it?”

“I don’t think he wants you to be miserable. Do you?”

She thinks about the three-fifths empty closet and swallows. “No,” she whispers.

“If he weren’t some random stranger, if you were friends with him, you wouldn’t feel the way you are, right?”

“No, but he _is_ a stranger.”

“So was I when we met. And look at us now.”

She pushes herself off the wall. “You’re saying I should make friends with him?”

“Got it in one, babe.” She can hear his grin. “You know, I always said you were a genius, and now—”

“Ha ha,” she retorts sarcastically, but there’s a new spark of hope in the haze. “I don’t know how.”

“Spend time with him. Cook with him. Ask him about his interests.”

Rey rubs her temple. “Finn. I didn’t ask you how to flirt with him.”

“Oh, if you’d asked me how to flirt with him, there would’ve been much more ‘accidentally’ mixed-up laundry in my recommendations.”

“Seriously. I don’t want him to feel like I’m coming onto him.”

“Then tell him that. Tell him what you’ve told me. Tell him you want to be friends.”

“Do you think it will work?” She nibbles her thumbnail.

“I mean, he did marry you; he must not mind your company _too_ much.”

“I have to go. My break’s nearly over.”

“Do you feel better, babe?”

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

She grins. “Then why’d you ask?”

“To rub it in, what a good friend I am.”

She’s laughing by now. “Bye.”

“Bye-bye!”

* * *

She’s not nearly confident enough in her cooking abilities to use them to woo him into friendship, so she pulls out a buy one get one entrée coupon to the Mediterranean place that she’s been holding on to use with Finn and picks up dinner for them on the way home. She doesn’t know what he likes besides the things he’s made for her, so she gets a chicken platter and a veggie one, with the idea that he can choose which one he likes better and if he doesn’t like either one, that means he doesn’t like Mediterranean food and that means she can’t be friends with him anyway, so either they’ll have a nice dinner or she’ll move to England.

She gets back to his apartment just before six. He usually gets home around then. She doesn’t know if that’s always been his routine, or if he changed it for her. He could’ve gone to that bar every night, for all she knows. She might be stopping him from bringing women back to his bed.

It’s funny—when she thought back on that night, she used to think that he’d said it had been his only one-night stand too. But he didn’t. Only she did. She gave away something of her that night, in that bed. _This_ bed. Hers, but not hers. She gave him the knowledge that he was an only to her.

She jumps when the key turns in the lock. He opens it slowly, with a caution that she’s sure he didn’t use before her.

He clears his throat when he sees her. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She gestures to the takeout boxes on the counter. “I got dinner. Hi.” She rubs the tip of her nose self-consciously. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” He puts down his bag and unwinds his scarf with the air of a man glad to be home at the end of the day. “For what?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I’m here.”

His brows furrow, and he pauses in the middle of taking off his coat. “What? You’re apologizing for...being here?”

“Yeah.” She flushes, reminded how bad she is at this. _Friends._

He looks confused. “Rey. You live here.”

“But it’s your apartment. I didn’t know if you like time alone in the evening.”

The food is slowly cooling on the counter. He doesn’t seem to mind. He slips his shoes off and hangs his coat up in the entryway closet. “Would you sit with me? Please?”

She comes to join him awkwardly on the couch, tucking herself into the far end opposite where he sits.

He clears his throat and rubs his hands over his knees. “I know we haven’t talked very much. About what this will be. But I want you to feel comfortable here. You never need to apologize.”

“Do you think...” she takes a fortifying breath, “...we can be friends?”

She doesn’t know his smiles very well yet. She’s only gotten a few, and she was naked for most of them. Those ones were different than this one. It’s hardly a smile. Most people would probably miss it: the twitch of the lips. The softening of the eyes. “You want to be friends with me?”

“Do you think that would be okay?”

“Yeah.” There’s no one who wouldn’t recognize _this_ as a smile. “Okay.”

* * *

“What did you do before this?” She tears off a strip of pita.

He’d refused to choose which entrée he liked better and told her to pick her favorite, but then she’d frowned and asked him to choose, so he took the chicken. They sit opposite each other across the small, circular table that is his dining room. She’d started off with modest, polite bites, but the hummus was too good, and she quickly abandoned the pretense of good manners. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Nothing.” He takes a swallow of water. “This was my first job out of college.”

“You’ve been an immigration officer the whole time? You didn’t change jobs within the office?”

“The whole time.”

“Wow.” She chews thoughtfully. “I’ve never met someone who’s only had one job.”

“How many jobs have you had?”

She gives him a knowing smile. “You know the answer to that question, don’t know?”

He ducks his head. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

He swallows a bite and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“I don’t have one.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t like movies?”

“I like movies. I don’t believe in favorites.” She takes her last bite and leans back in her chair, rubbing her stomach contentedly. “There’s always something better. Something I haven’t found yet.”

“But that’s the difference between favorite and best. What _you_ like.”

“I like a lot of movies.”

“Like what?”

“Is this going to be an immigration interview question?”

“No.”

She folds her napkin in her lap. Once, then twice. She looks down and fiddles with the corner. “Charlie Brown Christmas.”

“You like Charlie Brown Christmas.”

She looks up and nods.

“But it’s definitely not your favorite.”

She smiles. “Definitely not.”

* * *

They moved from the dining room table to the couch four hours ago. They’ve covered all the important things. Food preferences. Interests. Pet peeves. Favorite memories. He rests his feet on the coffee table. So does she. She leans back against the cushion, looking up at the ceiling. Drowsy. Comfortable.

She closes her eyes and smiles.

“Have you really never asked anyone to marry you before?”

“No.” His voice is low. “You’re the first.”

“But not the last.”

He doesn’t answer.

She looks over at him sleepily. “Do you want to be married one day?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well if you ever decide to propose for real, at least now you know how not to do it.”

“Good point.” He doesn’t sound nearly as sleepy as she is. “It probably wouldn’t be at a coffee shop, for one thing.”

“Mm,” she agrees. “Not very romantic.”

“I’d have a ring ready.”

She shrugs. “Don’t need a ring. Not if you love her. Just tell her. Why do you need a ring?”

It takes him a while to answer. “I don’t know.”

Her eyelids are heavy.

“You should go to bed, Rey.”

_“You_ should go to bed. To couch.” She smiles sleepily.

“Yeah.”

“Ben?” She rubs her eyes open.

“Yeah?”

“Are we friends now?”

“Yes. We’re friends, Rey.”

She nods, satisfied. “Good.”

* * *

She wakes with a jolt to her alarm. She’s still in the clothes she wore the day before, lying on the bed. Not _in—_ on top of the comforter. There’s a blanket over her. She doesn’t remember much about how she got there, besides a pair of arms and a warm chest that smelled like memory.

_Friends._

She snuggles up and smiles.

She could get used to this marriage thing.


	4. Chapter 4

The next evening she doesn’t hide in the bedroom. She’s sitting on the couch when he gets home—in the far corner, so she’s not in his way—and he sees her and smiles and shrugs off his coat and scarf and says, “Hi, wife.”

She grins. “Hi, husband.”

“What do you want for dinner?” He rolls up his sleeves and goes over to the kitchen.

“Anything’s fine. Sorry, I would’ve started it, but...” She tries to think of the best way to say _my cooking is perfectly adequate, thank you very much, just don’t ask Finn, because he says it’s awful, and you cook all these gourmet meals and I don’t know how to make risotto._

“Don’t worry, I like cooking for—” He seems to bite his tongue. “—dinner,” he finishes lamely.

“You shouldn’t have to every night, though, I can help, but you just need to teach me because I can’t make anything fancy like pasta.”

“Fancy like... pasta,” he deadpans, glancing over his shoulder at her as she comes to sit at the kitchen table.

“You know what I mean!” she protests. “That pasta you made last night. Even the _name_ was fancy. I can’t make French pasta.”

“Italian. _Primavera._ It means ‘spring.’”

“See? I don’t know Italian. So I can’t make your fancy pasta.”

“Good.” He smiles over his shoulder at her as he opens the fridge. “Then I will.”

“I feel like I’m not pulling my weight in this house,” she grumbles. “At least let me clean.”

“I like to clean,” he shrugs. “It relaxes me.”

“Or do the dishes.”

“You’ve been on your feet all day at work. You shouldn’t have to do the dishes at night too. I sit at a desk. I can use the exercise.”

“It doesn’t seem like you’re getting much out of this arrangement,” she grumbles. “You have to cook and clean just as much, and you don’t even get to sleep in your bed.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You will, though,” she insists. “I’m not just a houseguest who’s temporarily inconveniencing you. This is for a long time, Ben.”

“I know.” His back is to her. He’s cutting something on the cutting board. She waits for him to say something more. He doesn’t.

She gets up and walks uncertainly over to him. She leans back against the counter beside him. He glances over at her with a quick smile, but then looks back down at his brussels sprouts.

“You do that a lot,” he observes quietly.

“What?”

“Play with your ring.”

She looks down at her hands and finds that she’s been twisting her wedding ring around and around her finger. “Oh. Sorry.”

He frowns, bemused. “Why would you need to be sorry?”

“I don’t know. It’s still... new.”

“Yeah.” He moves on to the asparagus.

“I’m not used to wearing jewelry very often,” she admits.

He doesn’t look at her. “It suits you.” The asparagus seems to be demanding his entire attention.

“Ben?” She takes a breath of courage and turns to face him, hip propped against the counter.

“Yeah?” He spares her a glance.

“I need to ask you for something. And I need you to say yes.”

“Okay.”

“I realize that sounded shitty, and you’re already doing me the biggest favor in the world, and—”

“Rey.” He puts the knife down and turns to face her. “It’s okay.”

“Do you promise to say yes, though?” She wrings her hands.

His smile is small. “Yeah.”

“Let me sleep on the couch.”

He frowns. “That doesn’t count.”

“As what?”

“I thought you were asking me a favor. That’s the opposite of a favor.”

“No, it’s not. I want to sleep on the couch. You would be doing me a favor by letting me.”

“I want you to be comfortable.”

“Are you saying the couch is uncomfortable? Because that makes me feel even worse about kicking you out of your bedroom.”

“No, the couch is very comfortable.”

“Great, then I’ll be happy sleeping on it. It’s settled.”

He sighs. “Rey—”

She crosses her arms. “If we’re going to be friends, you have to get used to losing arguments to me.”

“Why don’t you want to sleep in the bed?”

“Because it’s yours.”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“It’s a great bed. And it’s yours. So you should sleep there.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “I want you to feel at home here.”

“I would feel more at home on the couch.”

 _He_ crosses his arms. “Why?”

She looks down, searching for the words, as if they might be written on the buttons of his shirt. “You’re already doing _so_ much for me. I know I’m probably stopping you from going out, and bringing hookups back here, and—”

He tries to interject, but she barrels on.

“I try to feel grateful, and I _am_ grateful—” she reaches out to touch his forearm to reassure him and looks up at him pleadingly, “but I mostly just feel guilty, that you’re going to all this trouble for me and can’t even sleep in your own _bed._ And I don’t want to feel guilty like this forever, so if you could let me sleep on the couch I would really, really appreciate it.”

She meant to take her hand off his arm at some point, she’s almost sure. But she didn’t get around to it. So it’s resting there, and his bare forearm is warm beneath her palm, and friends touch each other’s arms—that’s a perfectly normal friend thing—but they don’t linger this long and they don’t look at each other with the intensity that’s in his eyes right now and their pulse doesn’t throb at the memory of mouths and hands and thighs spread wide as the world.

He swallows. She can tell he swallows, because his Adam’s apple bobs determinedly and reminds her what an excellent height his neck is for licking, or kissing, or nibbling as he backs her up against the counter with greedy hands and insistent hips. The main problem is it’s not just imagination—not just what might be. She _knows_ how his arms feel locked around her, and how thick his cock and how heavy, and how his breath falls on her cheek telling her _good_ and _perfect_ and _fuck, Rey._ And his arm is hot and tense under her hand, and they can have dinner later. There’s really nothing from stopping her from walking into his arms and letting him carry her to the bed she doesn’t sleep in so he can pull off her pants and eat her out until she’s sloppy and swollen and ready for him to split her open again, and then maybe again a while later, lazy and laughing, and _then_ they can have dinner. The brussels sprouts and asparagus will keep.

“Okay.” There’s a ghost of a crackle in his voice, and he seems to be clinging white-knuckled to self-control. “If you want. You can sleep on the couch.”

“Oh.” She withdraws her hand quickly. “Okay. Thank you.”

He turns back to the cutting board and resumes slicing methodically, resolutely. There’s a shimmer of sweat at his temple. “Will that make you feel at home?”

She retreats a step and tries to swallow her heart from her throat back down to her chest. “Almost.”

“What do you mean?” He looks over at her.

“I want to do the dishes too.”

“No.”

“Are we really going to do this all over again? You know you’re going to end up agreeing; we can skip to that part.”

“If I let you do the dishes, then you’ll ask for something else.”

“If you give a mouse a cookie?”

“Exactly.” He slices the last bunch of asparagus savagely.

“This is all I want. I promise. Just two cookies.”

“You’re a very stubborn person.”

“Yep. Would that have been a dealbreaker for the whole marriage thing, if you’d known beforehand?”

He smiles at her briefly. “I did.”

“Okay. Good.” She’s somewhat mollified. “So we’re agreed.”

“About what?”

“I can do the dishes.”

“We’re _not_ agreed.”

“But when you said I was stubborn, that clearly meant—”

“You haven’t taken into consideration the fact that I’m stubborn too.”

“This is a conundrum.” She grins. “Good thing we’re not married for real.”

“Mm hmm.” She can’t see him, because he’s turned away from her to go to the sink, but his voice sounds oddly strained.

“So since we’re roommates, and roommates strive for an equitable division of labor, I can do the dishes.”

“Not a chance.”

He makes steak that night, with parmesan garlic sauce and sauteed vegetables. They eat it sitting across the table from each other, and there’s no danger of her hand touching his arm, and there are no pauses in the conversation that might accidentally fill up with heat. He eats a pear for dessert and she eats a chocolate-vanilla swirl pudding cup, and they forget that his body was once inside hers and they keep learning how to be friends with each other.

And she washes the dishes. He dries.

* * *

She’s home when he texts her early on Tuesday evening, four days since they became friends. A week and a half since they got married. A month since they spent the night together. They did things very backwards, she and Ben, but it’s working out so far.

 _Home visit this evening,_ the text says. They’ve known it’s coming, but that doesn’t stop Rey’s heart rate from spiking.

 _How do you know?_ she texts back.

 _Mary gave me a heads up._ Their case officer. Rey nibbles her thumbnail, debating asking him if it’s standard for the couple to be tipped off, given a few hours’ notice, or whether it was a professional courtesy. Probably the latter, she thinks. But the thought that Ben’s coworker let it slip isn’t a comfort: it could mean she thinks they have something to hide and is trying to spare Ben the embarrassment of having their fraud detected. She double-checks that the sheets for the couch are stowed safely in the linen closet. She looks around the living area with a critical eye, looking for anything that might say _roommates_ instead of _husband and wife._

The toothbrushes are snugly next to each other in the bathroom, and their towels hang side by side. She tiptoes into the bedroom, and the bed looms accusingly, but just because _Rey_ knows she doesn’t sleep there doesn’t mean the bed will shout it to the case officer. She pokes her head in the closet. Her clothes are there, coexisting amicably with his. Everything is fine. They’re going to be fine. She turns off the light and shuts the bedroom door.

She spends the half hour that remains until Ben arrives home pacing, trying to remember what she’s forgotten.

She jumps when she hears his keys in the door. He smiles at her and takes off his coat as usual. “Hi, wife.”

“Hi, husband,” she replies with a forced cheer. _“Is she here?”_ she mouths.

“What? No.” He toes his shoes off.

“Okay. Good.” She slides her ring up to the knuckle and down again. “Okay. What time is she coming? Did she say?”

Ben shrugs. “Probably in a few minutes. It looked like she was getting ready to leave the office when she told me.”

“Okay. Should I change? Will it look better if I’m in pajamas or something? To make it clear I’m sleeping here?”

“You can if you’d be more comfortable.” He crosses to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. “Is shepherd’s pie okay?”

“Ben, I feel like you’re not taking this seriously!”

He whirls around. “What?”

“We should _do_ something, we should, I don’t know, quiz each other on our pasts or practice kissing or something— will she ask us to kiss?”

“No, she won’t ask us to kiss,” he replies patiently.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve done hundreds of these home visits and I’ve never asked a couple to kiss.”

“But what if _Mary_ does?”

“Then I’ll ask her when the home visit protocol changed and how I missed the memo.”

“Then she’ll _know_ we’re faking it, and I’ll be deported, or do you think they’ll arrest me? Because I didn’t just overstay my visa, I tried to defraud them—”

“Rey.” He crosses the kitchen to her in three large steps and puts his hands on her arms. “We’re going to be fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know.”

“What if she catches you in a lie, and your whole _I never lie_ reputation goes up in flames?”

“She won’t catch me in a lie.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I won’t lie.”

“This is _not_ reassuring me; I don’t know if that was your goal, or—”

“Rey.” He strokes her arms. “We’ve gone over this a dozen times. All she’s looking for is any obvious evidence of fraud. And there isn’t any.”

“I keep my stuff in the fridge on a different shelf than yours. If we were really married, we would mix it up.”

“We are really married, and I promise I don’t want your squeezy yogurt in the produce drawer.”

“Do you think I have time to go to CVS?”

“What do you need at CVS?”

“Condoms.”

His face turns white, then red, and he hurriedly lets go of her arms. “Obviously there’s some level of attraction between us, but I don’t—”

“Not for _that,”_ she hisses. “So we can put them on the nightstand! How will she know we have sex if there aren’t condoms?”

“You’re on birth control.”

“Ooh, good point, should I leave the pill container lying out?”

“Rey. I don’t know how to make this happen, but I’m going to need you to stop freaking out now. It’s going to be fine. I swear.”

She glowers at him.

“I never lie, remember?”

She opens her mouth to retort, but she’s cut off by the doorbell.

He smiles encouragingly. “It’s going to be fine,” he repeats. He goes to answer the door, and she doesn’t have time to decide whether she should be sitting on the couch or standing in the kitchen or where would be a natural place for a real wife to be at 6:38 in the evening. He opens the door, and he’s inviting the case officer in and she’s asking if it’s okay if she takes a quick look around, and Rey is standing in the no-man’s land between the kitchen and the living room, and Mary greets her and shakes her hand, and Rey reminds her cheeks to smile.

Mary pokes her head in the bathroom and the bedroom, and she doesn’t even go in far enough to see the closet that’s three-fifths Rey’s and she doesn’t look long enough to notice the lack of condoms on the nightstand. It’s over in thirty seconds, and Mary is apologizing to Ben for intruding, and saying words like _only a formality, obviously,_ and he’s saying _it’s protocol, don’t worry, I understand._

Mary hasn’t even taken off her coat. She’s turning to leave, but then turns back. “Oh, one more thing. Just to make sure everything in the file is in order.”

“Please,” Ben invites with a nod.

Mary clears her throat. Rey wonders if it’s just her imagination, or if an embarrassed flush is climbing the woman’s cheeks. “There’s one thing I haven’t been able to account for. Why your wife submitted an application last month.”

Ben looks confused. “Her visa had expired.”

“Yes, sorry, what I meant was why she submitted an application with another partner. A Finn something?”

“Oh.” Ben clears his throat shakily. “That’s easily explained.”

“Great.” Mary looks relieved.

But the easy explanation doesn’t come. The silence stretches on until it reaches the very edge of unbearable, and Rey finally springs to Ben’s side and clasps his hand in both of hers. “My husband is trying to protect me, actually, Mary. It was a silly thing to do. It was my fault. I wasn’t serious about that application. Clearly.”

Mary’s brow furrows. “We take all applications very seriously, as I’m sure Ben can tell you.”

“Of course.” Rey squeezes his hand. She’s not sure if it’s his palm that’s clammy, or hers, or maybe both. “We were having a fight. Of sorts. I knew that I wanted to be with Ben, but he thought we were moving too fast, and I was scared about my visa situation, and I convinced my friend to come apply with me. To kind of get under Ben’s skin. Spur him to action. It was juvenile, and I’m sorry for it.”

“No,” Ben interrupts gruffly. “You don’t have to lie. I was the one who was moving too quickly. I shouldn’t have pushed you.” He turns back to Mary. “I fell in love with Rey the night we met, and I knew she wasn’t ready for a commitment nearly as soon as I was. I came on too strong. She felt like she had to resort to a false application with her friend, and she shouldn’t have had to.”

“Okay,” Mary says slowly, glancing back and forth curiously between the two of them. “But you two were already in a relationship at the time?”

“Yes,” Rey supplies quickly. “Definitely.”

“Great.” Mary lets loose a relieved sigh. “That was the only thing I needed. Have a nice evening. I’m so sorry for disturbing you.”

“Not a problem,” Ben replies, and he lets go of Rey’s hand to see Mary to the door and wish her a good night and close it behind her, and the whole thing lasted less than three minutes, and now Rey can breathe again.

“See?” Ben says, turning back from the door. “I told you it would be fine.”

She chuckles shakily. “Yeah, only because you _can_ lie after all. Pretty convincingly, too. Good thing.”

“Yeah.” His shoulders sag suddenly and he walks over to the kitchen, with his hand balled into a fist for some reason. “Good thing.”


End file.
